


The Coffee Shop

by wordcraze



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 16:17:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordcraze/pseuds/wordcraze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn is quiet, reserved, and loves Shakepeare. Harry is confident, popular, and loves Zayn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sonnet 18

At 5:15 every day, Zayn comes into the coffee shop, orders chai tea, takes a seat by the window, and buries his nose in a book. He leaves 6 pm on the dot. It’s Harry’s favorite 45 minutes of the day, and he’s sure that it’s just another 45 minutes to Zayn.

Harry has done things to get his attention. He takes extra care when he makes his chai tea, draws smiley faces on the cup, stick figures, or he writes Zayn’s name in what he thinks to be creative font. Zayn always says “thank you" but he doesn’t really look at him, or take note of Harry’s effort. It’s not that Zayn doesn’t care, he just doesn’t notice. It’s not his fault, Harry thinks. But he just needs to try harder next time.

The thing is, it frustrates Harry sometimes. Everyone knows who he is. He’s Harry Styles, he’s invited everywhere, to everything, parties aren’t complete without his presence, and he’s on the football team, for crying out loud. Harry is NOT invisible. But Zayn just sees past him, like he’s transparent. Zayn sees him like he’s just another person. And it’s not fair, because Harry wants Zayn to really see him.

Today, Harry draws a smiley face wearing a party hat. He’s not sure why, but he’s running out of ideas, and this was the only thing he could think of. He’s nervous, and a little frustrated, as he hands the cup to Zayn because he knows it will go unnoticed again. And of course, it is. Zayn takes his spot by the window, and Harry goes back to staring at him for 45 minutes because this has become routine. It’s pathetic, really, but Harry can’t help himself. He feels like he’s in a movie. The lonely barista pines for the unreachable boy.

"You’re embarrassing," Louis is wiping down the counter, and he rolls his eyes. “You are really, really embarrassing."

Harry throws a rag at him in response, because he knows that his friend is right. He continues to watch Zayn who looks so beautiful with his furrowed brows, and incredibly interested in whatever he was reading.

"You could talk to him," Louis says.

Harry shakes his head. “I did."

"Saying ‘Hi, what can I make for you today?’ doesn’t count as a proper conversation."

Obviously, Louis is right, and Harry knows that. He’s not an idiot. But he doesn’t know how to start talking to Zayn. He’s quiet, intelligent, intimidating and just so goddamn stunning. Harry is already invisible, so he might as well be mute too.

He remembers when Zayn transferred to their school. Everyone had gone through primary school together, and they had all settled into their cliques. They were sixteen, and Zayn came in, exotic and different, sending the girls into a frantic mess. Harry recalls the English class he had with Zayn, and he smiles to himself at the memory.

They were on the subject of Shakespeare and his sonnets that day, and they were discussing Sonnet 18. A girl said she wanted someone to recite that poem to her one day, and Zayn just couldn’t keep quiet about it.

"That poem was written for a man," he said.

The girl looked at him like he had said makeup was no longer being sold. “Um, no, Shakespeare wrote it, and Shakespeare was a guy. He can’t write it for another guy."

Harry remembered the way Zayn’s eyes looked. They were like daggers, and if they could, they’d cut right through her. “A man can praise another man’s beauty, there’s nothing wrong or different about that. And that’s exactly what Shakespeare was doing. He was immortalizing the beauty of another human being, and the subject just so happened to be male. And I quote, ‘And often is his gold complexion dimm’d.’ That’s not assumption. That’s fact. Straight from the text. I dare you to tell me I’m wrong."

The girl narrowed her eyes, and didn’t say anything. But from that day on, a rumor spread that Zayn was gay. And since then, he didn’t speak much.

Harry thinks the rumor to be very unfair because it was stemmed from a stupid girl who got schooled on Shakespeare, but there is that little nudge inside of him that hopes there’s some truth to it. It’s selfish of him to wish for it though, and he knows that. So for now, he’s content with watching.

The next day, Harry has a class with Zayn, and he’s feeling a little braver. So he asks Zayn if he can borrow a pencil.

"You asked him for a pencil?" Louis asks at lunch, and he looks like he’s about to smack Harry. “You go for the classic pencil line?"

"There’s a reason why it’s a classic pencil line, so don’t be so harsh on it. It worked. I got his pencil."

"Are you going to make a shrine for it?"

"Maybe."

They immediately cease the conversation when they’re joined by the rest of their friends, but Louis is giving Harry an annoyed look. Two years of silently watching Zayn, and Harry’s big move is to ask for a pencil. He’s not even sure if he wants to make a big move. He just wants Zayn to know he exists.

It’s the end of the day, and Harry scours the hallway for Zayn. He’s about to make another big move. He’s going to give his pencil back. Harry finally spots him, weaving through the crowd towards his locker, with his nose in a book.

"Zayn," Harry calls out to him, his voice strangled. He loves saying Zayn’s name, especially when it’s addressing him directly. Harry thinks it’s so intimate, and he gets a rush out of it. Zayn barely turns his head, and that seriously irks Harry. “Thanks for the pencil."

Zayn finally looks up. “What pencil?"

Harry holds it up for him to see, disappointed that he has already forgotten about it. “You let me borrow it earlier today."

"Oh." Zayn’s eyes leave his book for only seconds at a time, and Harry’s heart sinks. “Keep it. I have more."

"Okay…" Harry is close to giving up, but he remembers Louis’ annoyance at him, and he wants to give good news (for once) to his friend when he sees him for work later on. “What are you reading?"

Zayn doesn’t even answer. He just lifts the book up so Harry could see the title. It’s called Will Grayson, Will Grayson, and Harry’s never heard of it before, but if Zayn is reading it, then it ought to be good. But he asks anyway.

"Is it good?"

Zayn nods. He lowers the book long enough to open his locker, and grab a few things. He shuts it, then tells Harry, “See ya," and that’s it.

\- - -

"I can’t even fault you this time," Louis says, looking genuinely sorry for Harry. “He really doesn’t give a shit about you, does he?"

That stings a little, and Harry glares at him. “You don’t have to put it that way."

"Yeah, I do. Two years is long enough, and it’s about time to move on."

"Can’t really move on from something I never had."

And as if on cue, the little bell above the door rings, and Zayn steps in, book in hand. Harry hates that he still feels butterflies and electricity, and he wants nothing more than to squash those stupid electrocuted butterflies. He already knows Zayn’s usual order, so he just goes to make it, and this time, he doesn’t put any drawings on the cup.

It’s not the usual blissful 45 minutes. Harry is moody and disgruntled, and he feels rejected even though he hasn’t attempted anything too serious. But the thing is, Harry has never felt rejected, and he really doesn’t like this feeling.

"What if you only want him because you can’t have him?" Louis asks, and it’s a legitimate question. Harry considers this for a moment, because he’s honestly never thought of it.

"I guess I never thought I could really have him. I went into it knowing I couldn’t. He’s just like a nice daydream. It’s pleasant when it’s there, but you know it’s not real."

Louis wrinkles his nose, and looks over to Zayn, then back at Harry. “But it’s become a bit more than a daydream, hasn’t it?"

Harry doesn’t answer him.

\- - -

The following day, Harry tries his best not to be on the lookout for Zayn. It’s pointless. Zayn couldn’t give two shits about his existence, and so the likelihood of them being friends is slim to none. He goes about the day like a ghost. A jilted ghost, floating through the halls, and cursing everyone who is fortunate enough to get who they want.

He feels a little empty. Even though Zayn never was his, he feels as if seeing him had given his days more meaning. He feels that the prospect of receiving one smile, or a few words quickened the passing hours. It’s sad, really. He thinks it’s funny how a person could rule every step, and dominate every thought, but ignore you at the same time. Harry accepts it as one of life’s cruel jokes.

His favorite 45 minutes of the day is no longer titled “My favorite 45 minutes of the day." In fact, it is the most torturous 45 minutes. Zayn is just so beautiful with his raven hair, and mile-long lashes. So oblivious, so unattainable.

Harry leaves Zayn’s cup blank again.

This goes on for a few days, and Harry realizes how hard it is quitting a person so quickly, and not easing himself out of it first. But he figures he’s got to do it fast so the pain doesn’t last for too long. He thinks it’s funny that there’s pain involved, because this isn’t even a proper breakup. Zayn has no clue, and Harry wishes to leave it that way.

It’s Friday, and Harry has successfully gone a week without his outward pining for Zayn (although his inside pining is a different story). He has no work today, and he’s grateful for that because he plans on getting piss drunk with Louis and the rest of the football team later on. He hurries to his locker, calling out “Have a good weekend!" to everyone that greets him. Harry is feeling lighter, and much better, and he feels like he will slowly but surely get through his little obsession. After all, isn’t that all it is? An obsession? He turns a corner, and he collides into another body. Books go flying, and he immediately goes into “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!" mode, while kneeling down to pick up the fallen books. Harry looks up at the victim.

It’s Zayn.

"I’m… um, I’m sorry," Harry says again, and his voice his shaking a little, but he does his best to mask it. He gathers up the books that aren’t his, and he hands them over to Zayn. “You okay?"

Zayn is quiet, and Harry’s chest hurts a little. Why can’t Zayn ever just speak to him properly? Why is Harry always invisible to him? As he gets up, ready to scurry off in embarrassment, Zayn finally responds.

"You don’t draw on my cup anymore." Zayn straightens up, and looks at him, and Harry stares back blankly. Zayn doesn’t say anything else, and he brushes past him like nothing happened.

And Harry is right back to square one.

\- - -

It’s Monday afternoon, and it’s 5:10 pm. Harry already has a cup ready for Zayn, and instead of drawing something, he’s written something out.

Since Zayn has been noticing the drawings, he’s bound to notice this one, and Harry’s heart pounds in anticipation.

5:15. Zayn walks in. And before he could place his order, Harry is already making chai tea, taking extra care because he knows exactly how Zayn wants it. He inspects the writing on the cup, and hopes that it will be appreciated: Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Harry knows that it could be taken in lots of ways. He is aware of what a big gesture this is, but he doesn’t mind the risk anymore. If he would try for anyone, it would be for the quiet boy who unknowingly held him captive for two years.

Zayn pays for the drink, and takes the cup. There is no reaction as he makes his way to his usual table, takes out his book, and starts reading. 20 minutes pass, then 30. 45 minutes pass, and he stands up, and leaves. Harry feels his heart break a little, but he doesn’t regret anything. Zayn had noticed, and that was enough.

\- - -

When Harry opens his locker the next day, there is a note on top of his books, in messy scrawl.

Thou art more lovely and more temperate

He stares at the note, reading it over and over for a full minute, and he hopes it isn’t a joke. His eyes scan the crowded hallway, looking for the only person he knows would write this to him.

Harry’s eyes lock with Zayn’s, and they both smile.


	2. Tame Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is still too infatuated, and Zayn is still too quiet.

Harry sometimes goes a couple days without so much as a look from Zayn, and though the boy’s actions confuse him, he vows not to stop pursuing. He gives Zayn space. Plenty of space.

But when Zayn acknowledges Harry’s existence, Harry is elated, and he feels like he’s shot past the heavens, above the moon, and beyond the stars. He cherishes the moments, and blocks out everything else but him and Zayn.

Zayn passes him in the hallway, hands him a book called The Giver, and says, “Read it. It’s good.” He doesn’t talk to Harry for two days after that.

Harry notices that Zayn highlights certain things in the books he lets Harry borrow. It’s always just one line in every book, and Harry doesn’t look ahead to see which line Zayn has singled out. He waits until he stumbles upon it.

In The Giver, Zayn has highlighted “The worst part of holding the memories is not the pain. It’s the loneliness of it. Memories need to be shared." Harry copies the quote down in a notebook, and he reads over the past quotes he has written down from Zayn’s borrowed books.

> “Some infinities are bigger than other infinities." (The Fault in Our Stars)
> 
> “We see the beauty within and cannot say no." (A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius)
> 
> “Star people are rare." (Stargirl)

 

He wonders why Zayn chooses those certain quotes to point out, and Harry reads them over and over, hoping to catch a glimpse in the mind of this fascinating boy. Zayn is somewhere in these words, and Harry won’t stop searching.

Whenever Harry finishes a book, he hands it back to Zayn when he makes his daily visits to the coffee shop. He slips a note between the cover and the first page, to let Zayn know what he thinks of it. They don’t speak as Zayn takes the book back.

Harry’s note says, 'Ignorance isn't always bliss.' He sees Zayn smile a little when he reads it, and it’s enough to make Harry happy.

“So are you two dating?” Louis asks. He has been asking this every day.

“No,” Harry says, and it’s the same answer each time. “He talks to me once every few days. If that’s dating, then it’s a pretty shit relationship.”

“Whatever, I bet you’ve got his name tattooed on your arse.”

Harry smirks. “Maybe.”

Zayn leaves the coffee shop after 45 minutes, and he doesn’t even look at Harry as he walks out the door. It should be discouraging, but Harry feels like he’s making some sort of progress each day. After two years of silence, Harry takes what he can get. And to him, a few words and highlighted sentences are the most beautiful thing.

It’s Tuesday, and Zayn gives him a book called Lamb. “It’s funny,” he says, and then he walks away.

Zayn has highlighted "You think you know how this story is going to end, but you don’t."

Harry finishes the book in two days because it’s just that good, and he thinks it’s up there in his top five favorites. He now believes he should depend on Zayn to open his mind to the literary world, because he puts Zayn’s opinion on a pedestal.

The note Harry leaves in the book is I didn’t see that coming. But I think it’s better that way.

He wishes Zayn would talk to him every day, or look his way at least. but Harry knows it doesn’t work that way with Zayn. Zayn isn’t like most people. He’s more like an untamed creature, reluctantly placed in a cage. He is unearthly and magical, and Harry feels special to have even a tenth of Zayn’s attention. But he becomes selfish, and wants all of it. He wants Zayn to share his world with him. Harry wants to be magical too.

Harry wants to start reading on his own, and he finds a book called The Little Prince. It looks like a child’s book, but when he gives it a chance, he realizes that it isn’t. He comes to a part where the little prince comes across a fox and, the fox asks to be tamed. The little prince asks:

> _"It’s something that’s been too often neglected. It means to ‘create ties’…"_
> 
> _“‘To create ties’?”_
> 
> _"That’s right," the fox said. "For me you’re only a little boy just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you have no need of me, either. For you I’m only a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, we’ll need each other. You’ll be the only boy in the world for me. I’ll be the only fox in the world for you…"_

 

Harry reads on, wanting to know how to tame a fox.

> _What do I have to do?” asked the little prince._
> 
> _"You’ll have to be very patient," the fox answered. "First you’ll sit down a little ways ahead from me, over there, in the grass. I’ll watch you out of the corner of my eye, and you won’t say anything. Language is the source of misunderstandings. But day by day, you’ll be able to sit a little closer…"_

 

And Harry finally understands. Zayn is his fox.

\- - -

It’s lunchtime, and Harry ditches his crowded and noisy table to look for Zayn who is nowhere in sight. In fact, in all of Zayn’s two years at school, Harry realizes that he has never seen Zayn set foot inside the cafeteria. But the school isn’t so huge, and there’s only so many places a person can hide.

Harry feels like he knows where to look first, and he has a good feeling. He walks into the library, and his feeling does not fail him, because he spots Zayn immediately, sitting at a table by himself. Harry starts to get a little nervous at the last second, but he forces himself to stay. He has already made a lot of progress, and he doesn’t want to throw it all away. Not when he’s so close. He won’t give up on his fox.

He makes his way to the end of Zayn’s table, and sits there. Not quite next to him, but close enough. Zayn doesn’t even look up, and Harry isn’t sure what he expected would happen, but he isn’t quite surprised by this. He knows Zayn isn’t going to make the first move, so he’s got to take it in his own hands. He scribbles down a note: 'What are you reading?' and tosses the paper at Zayn.

The paper hits the side of Zayn’s head, and he looks so surprised, that Harry has to muffle his giggles. Zayn reads the note, then writes his reply, and passes the paper back to Harry.

'Weetzie Bat.'

Harry has never heard of it, but he wants to seem worldly and cultured to Zayn, so he thinks of a proper reply. Nothing comes to him, so he gives up, and writes, 'What's it about?'

'Life.' Zayn writes.

'Are you going to let me borrow it?'

'Maybe.'

Even on paper, Zayn isn’t a man of many words, and Harry is running out of ways to really engage him in conversation. But Zayn still fascinates him, and Harry still wants to know more. He’s selfish in the way that he wants to draw everything he can out of Zayn, but he isn’t sure how to go about it without pushing. But he remembers that he has to do it little by little. Move a bit closer every day. It might be tedious, but Zayn is enchanting, poetic, and everything Harry wants, and he needs to be what Zayn wants too.

Harry stands up, and takes the seat next to Zayn.

“Zayn, I—” and he’s cut off by the shrill ring of the bell signaling that lunch is over.

Zayn gathers up his books, and says. “I’ve got history next. Bye…” And he stands up, but he hesitates, and adds like it’s an afterthought. “… Harry.” He rushes out of the library.

Harry is left with nothing but their scribbled conversation, and the sound of his name in Zayn’s voice.

\- - -

“I bet he thinks you two are dating,” Louis says later on that afternoon at work. “This is probably his version of dating.”

“Don’t be daft,” Harry mumbles as he stacks cups on the counter. He feels a light shiver go down his spine though, at the mere thought of dating Zayn. He wonders what that would be like. Maybe they would sit in a patch of sunlight in the park, leaning against each other, with Zayn murmuring a story in Harry’s ear. Harry can barely handle this fantasy of his, and he’s staring out into space, only to be drawn back to reality by Louis snapping his fingers in front of his eyes.

“Ugh, look at you,” Louis grimaces. “You’re thinking naughty thoughts, aren’t you? God, don’t even tell me.”

“I’m not!” Harry insists, but he quickly lowers his voice when the bell above the door chimes, and Zayn walks in. Punctual, as always.

Zayn goes up to the counter, and takes out his wallet. “I’ll have the—”

“I know what you want,” Harry interrupts. Zayn’s eyes snap up to meet Harry’s, and he stands there quietly. Harry realizes what it might have sounded like, and his cheeks become rosy as he’s vigorously shaking his head. “N-No, all I meant was, you order chai all the time, so I know what you want. Not that I know what you want—”

“Oookay!” Louis sweeps in, gently bumping Harry away from the register. “Harry, you go and make that tea, and I’ll take care of the payment.” And Harry hears Louis mumble to Zayn, “It’s on the house.”

It’s embarrassing, and Harry blames it on his mini daydream, but he shoves all thoughts aside as he fixes up Zayn’s tea. He draws a sun wearing sunglasses on the cup, and he hands it over to Zayn, who surprisingly smiles at the little doodle. Harry’s heart jumps.

Zayn goes to his usual table, but something is different. Harry sees that Zayn doesn’t have a book today, and he’s just sitting there, sipping his drink. It’s a strange sight because every day, for two years, Harry had been used to watching Zayn for 45 minutes staring into a book. He just stands there, confused, and spaced out again.

Louis moves up behind him, “You’re killing me, Styles. Go sit with him. Barely anyone’s coming in today, so I’ll cover for you.”

Harry doesn’t dare say no to Louis because he’ll just get shit about being a coward, so he takes off his apron, and slowly makes his way to Zayn’s table.

“Can I sit?” he motions to the seat in front of Zayn, and he nods. Harry lowers himself into the chair, and he slowly lifts his eyes to look at Zayn’s face. It physically hurts him how perfect the boy is. “You’re not reading a book today.”

Zayn’s expression is unreadable. “You noticed?”

Harry nods. “I noticed.”

Zayn’s fingers wrap around the cup, and his gaze lowers. “Oh.” And his mouth opens like he’s about to say something, but then he shakes his head.

“You were going to say something,” Harry says, and Zayn just shakes his head again, but Harry continues on. “It’s okay. You can say it.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he replies. “Not many people do.”

“Not many people do what?”

“Notice.”

Harry frowns, “That’s not true.” And Zayn doesn’t reply. Instead he takes another sip from his tea, and remains quiet. Harry wants to say more, but Zayn isn’t big on conversation. And he remembers a quote from The Little Prince: ‘Language is the source of misunderstandings.’

He gets up wordlessly, goes behind the counter again, and grabs a pen and paper, then he makes his way back to Zayn’s table. He scribbles on the paper for a few seconds, then pushes it over towards Zayn. Harry has started a game of hangman, and Zayn smiles.

\- - -

Harry now spends his lunches with Zayn in the library. They don’t speak. They just write notes. And in a matter of days, Harry learns more about Zayn than he ever did in the past two years.

Zayn lives with his parents, and his three sisters; Doniya, Waliyha, and Safaa. The first Shakespeare play he’s seen is Hamlet, and he wants to be an English teacher. He listens to a lot of Michael Jackson, but he also likes Nirvana, and The Beatles. The best book-to-movie transition he’s seen is Fight Club, and he likes Jammie Dodgers.

Harry writes him notes throughout the day, and hands them to him in between classes. He talks about things he learns, funny things he sees, or if he’s struck by a random thought. He wants Zayn to know everything about him, and the inner workings of his brain.

Zayn writes him notes during the day too, but they all consist of one or two sentences. Harry enjoys them though. A few of them are:

'I don't think the apocalypse is coming anytime soon.'

'I feel bad for birds when it rains.'

And Harry’s favorite.

'If you were given the choice to drop out of school to be a pirate, would you?'

Their coffee shop afternoons are spent playing hangman, and Zayn thinks of the most marvelous words, and Harry keeps their hangman games so he doesn’t forget them.

Effervescent. Petrichor. Dalliance. Cynosure.

Harry finds Zayn’s thoughts to be more attractive than his face, if that were possible. He loses himself in Zayn’s words, and feels his heart swell at his short notes. He craves more information, anything that Zayn can hand over, and Harry is patient as he takes whatever Zayn decides to give him. He realizes he has fallen in love with Zayn’s mind, and therefore, fallen in love with Zayn himself.

It’s a funny realization. Love.

Zayn finally lets Harry borrow Weetzie Bat, and his highlighted quote is:

“You are in my blood. I can’t help it. We can’t be anywhere except together."

Harry reads it, and his heart flutters. Then he remembers that the written word is how Zayn communicates, and with that in mind, his heart soars instead. And that’s when Harry comes to the decision, that he has to let Zayn know. He needs to let Zayn know that someone notices him. That someone loves him.

They are in between classes, and this is when they usually take the time to give each other their notes. Harry has a copy of The Little Prince, and he has highlighted the little prince’s encounter with the fox. He hands the book to Zayn, and says, “It’s important.” And he quickly rushes off, his pulse pounding due to nerves.

Harry doesn’t see Zayn until his shift at the coffee shop. He’s got his cup ready, and there’s a fox drawn on it. Zayn takes it, goes to his seat, and Harry has paper ready for hangman, but he halts when he sees that Zayn has got a book out. His heart drops a little, and he remains standing behind the counter. He thought Zayn used the Weetzie Bat quote to reveal his feelings, but now Harry is so unsure. Things with Zayn have always been a bit unstable, and Harry should get used to it by now, but he never really does. He doesn’t want to scare Zayn off, and have to go about his days lacking silly little notes, and scribbled conversations. It’s become a part of his life now, and he doesn’t want to let it go. He doesn’t want to let Zayn go.

“Jilted again?” Louis asks.

Harry doesn’t reply.

\- - -

The next day, Harry is a nervous wreck. He curses himself for misreading Zayn, and for stupidly thinking that someone like Zayn could ever want someone like Harry. He keeps his head low, looking nowhere but at the ground. He’ll get through today, and be able to use the weekend to recover. Next week, he’ll apologize to Zayn, and try to be his friend again. Just his friend. Because that’s better than not having Zayn at all.

The second bell rings, and he’s late to class, but there’s not much motivation left in him. Even though the hallways are almost empty, he drags his feet towards his classroom, but is abruptly stopped when a hand closes around his wrist. He turns his head and sees Zayn, hair and eyes all wild. It’s quiet for a moment, and they’re both just breathing, and staring at each other. And before Harry can ask what’s wrong, Zayn speaks.

“You’ll be the only boy in the world for me?”

Harry blinks, confused for half a second before he gets it. It’s part of what he highlighted in The Little Prince. And his heart nearly stops when he really gets it. Zayn is asking him a genuine question, one that Harry has always wanted to hear. And one that he is eager to answer. He grins widely and nods, his fingers closing around Zayn’s hand.

Zayn smiles, shifts their fingers so that they’re laced, and says softly, “I’ll be the only fox in the world for you.”


	3. Falling in Love at a Coffee Shop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From 5:15 to 6:00, Zayn spends his time at a coffee shop. It’s his favorite 45 minutes of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a reader, it's probably hard to guess what Zayn is thinking, so here's a glimpse of his brain during his interaction with Harry.

I hated this place. It was neverending misery, like I was temporarily cursed to spend time at this purgatory. Borderline hell. I almost hated myself for sounding like a cliche. Oh no, the teenage boy hates high school and deems himself higher than these neanderthals. It wasn’t my fault that these inferior life forms turned me into a stereotype.

I’m a misanthropist, I know.

"Give it a chance, sweetheart," mum had said. She’s great, my mum. But she is so blind to my inner struggle not to verbally assault my classmates one by one (aha, I could’ve easily resorted to physical violence there, but I’m a pacifist. A misanthropic pacifist? Can those exist? Maybe I’m just trying to be everything. Or maybe I am everything).

I had no friends here, but getting a “totally bitchin’” social life wasn’t on my to-do list. I just wanted to graduate, and get the fuck out of this place. It was dismal, no color, no electricity in the air. It was just straight lines, monotonous, playing the same tune over and over.

I deserve a fucking award for being alive in this town.

So that’s what I do, I treat myself.

There was a coffee shop I had seen not too far from where I lived, and I had a stupid idea that if I did an hour and a half straight of homework, I’d indulge in a book and tea. It made me feel intellectual, like a tortured aspiring writer gaining ideas for his new literary adventure.

It’s not a bad place so far. They would even draw on your cup. I got a dancing stick figure by my name on the cup, and it’s not Picasso or anything, but it amuses me. I spend 45 minutes with my book and chai tea, then I leave.

I make a habit out of it, and I look forward to the silly drawings. A variety of things were drawn on my cup. A cat, a rabbit wearing a hat, and even a Christmas tree at one point even though it was still fall. I decided to look up and see who my artist was. I mean, yeah, it’s weird to have come here so many times and not look at the people working the counter, but eye contact is so awkward, and I hate it. I have to look up though, just to see who this fucking Picasso is, so I do.

Bad idea.

Worst idea.

Abort mission.

Help me. God, help me. I hadn’t lived properly until now, until this very second. No painter could come close to capturing the forest green of those eyes. He was just all eyes, hair, lips, hands. Those hands, and all the things they can make, and all the things they can…

… do.

His name is Harry Styles. Everyone knows him. People either want to be him, or want to do him. And of course I’d do this to myself, of fucking course I’d be completely smitten with the most unreachable person in the world. As if I didn’t hate myself enough. But just because I couldn’t have him, didn’t mean I couldn’t stalk him. And I do. I stalked the shit out of him, and sat myself in that coffee shop every day just so I could breathe the same air as him. I’m a sick, sick person. I’m a complete masochist.

Harry Styles.

It sounds like music.

My infatuation went on for over a year, and it didn’t waver. My obsession lasted longer than most relationships, and sometimes I fancied myself in a one-sided relationship with him. Might as well have been. I never strayed.

He played football, and he probably thought he was Leo Messi or something. Maybe he was, because I didn’t know how he played. I never went to anything that involved school spirit. I wouldn’t even go to the cafeteria.

Harry was a big fan of Quentin Tarantino, and he liked indie bands that people have never heard of. Pretentious bastard, I hated him. But I didn’t, really. Sometimes I tested out saying “I hate Harry Styles” out loud, but I just felt weird and never believed it.

I only picked up a little bit of information here and there, but it wasn’t enough to really know him as a person. I wanted to know him, but he was Harry Styles, and I was just Zayn Malik. And people named Harry Styles do not mingle with people named Zayn Malik.

There are times when I think I’m better than everyone else, but then some person comes along, and just ruins my whole mindset. It’s so inconvenient.

I nearly combusted when he asked to borrow a pencil. When class ended, I just shot up out of my seat, and got out of there like fucking Seabiscuit before he could give it back. I read somewhere that if someone has one of your belongings, they’ll dream about you.

Happy dreams, Styles.

I spent most of the day thinking about what kinds of dreams Harry would have about me, but I was snapped out of my little reverie when I heard my name being called. Yeah, no, nobody knew my name.

But it was in Harry’s voice. Hallelujah.

No. No wait. What the hell, he knows my name? This was bad. Was he going to talk to me? No, he can’t do that. I’ll say something stupid like “I want to give you butterfly kisses.”

Maybe if I don’t look at him, I won’t have to say much. So that’s exactly what I do. I keep my eyes fixed on my book, reading the same sentence over and over.

"Thanks for the pencil," he said.

No. He has to keep that pencil to have dreams about me. If he gives it back, then he’ll ruin everything. Keep the bloody pencil! I had to play it cool. Maybe if I deny it…

"What pencil?" I asked. Yeah, that was good. That was cool.

But the beautiful little fucker had to hold it up, proving it, backing it up with evidence and shit. “You let me borrow it earlier today.”

I knew that if I looked at him too long, I’d melt into a big puddle on the floor. Just looking at him made me want to know more, it made me want to discover all his secrets, his little quirks, and all the things that made him who he was. So I couldn’t look at him. I’ll just want it all. I’ll just want everything I couldn’t have.

"Oh. Keep it, I have more." I’m still pushing for him to keep the stupid pencil.

"Okay. What are you reading?"

Is he really attempting conversation with me? Was this a joke? Or part of community service? Was he doing charity work? Borrowing a pencil from me was like God’s miracle, but having an actual conversation with him was something I didn’t prep myself for. I felt myself panic. So I just lifted the book to show him the title instead of replying.

"Is it good?"

Oh my god, stop. Not right now, I haven’t mentally prepared. I needed at least a week to whip up witty things and phrases to say to him. He needed to think I was perfect, and not a stuttering idiot. So I just nodded before saying, “See ya,” then I bolted out of there.

I could hear my own heart thrumming, each beat was his name. HarryHarryHarry.

I hope that wasn’t the last time.

I hope he talks to me again.


End file.
